


The title of this doc was "Sam and Dean wingfic"

by kisahawklin



Series: Unfinished and discontinued fic [3]
Category: Constantine (2005), Supernatural
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-19
Updated: 2005-12-19
Packaged: 2017-12-26 18:17:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kisahawklin/pseuds/kisahawklin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bit of poker hustling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The title of this doc was "Sam and Dean wingfic"

**Author's Note:**

> Originally conceived very early on in S1 where Dean was half-angel and Sam was half-demon, of the Constantine variety. I left fandom and then was Kripked so hard my head's still spinning.

They’re back in Vegas, half an hour away from the poker game that will fund their next month or so. Dean’s got a girl in the chip house who stakes him and he always pays her back, with a hefty tip, even if he loses and has to steal it from another table. He usually wins, though, and that works out for everybody. Even on a lean win, he gets a few thousand dollars, and that puts them in gas and Twinkies for a couple of weeks.

Sam’s taken to complaining about the small towns Dean favors. He likes the newspaper spread of the big city, and the consistency of Starbucks. It’s also more likely he can pick up wireless, and while the trash rags are sometimes useful, the internet is still his main source of information.

He’s got a lead in New York, but he doesn’t know how to convince Dean they need to go. There are plenty of hunters in the big apple, and it’s expensive for wilderness junkies like them. The cheap motels are too dangerous, and you can’t stay in Central Park any more unless you really know your way around.

Sam’s got a good feeling about this game, Dean’s revved up and more insane than usual, which makes for excellent bluffing. He’s honed his powers of perception to a razor sharp edge and if he misses something, Sam clues him in. He doesn’t miss much.

Sam likes the tables, he likes observing the spectators as they watch the game. You can tell who knows their way around by the way they react to betting. High rollers get their share of beautiful women, and even though Dean looks like the odd man out in his Christian Dior knockoff, he’s already caught three or four of them with his toothy smile and boyish charm. Sam’s willing to bet he’ll have two of them on his arm when he walks out.

Dean starts slow, giving them the earnest farm boy routine. He plays it well, going dangerously low early and overplaying a barn-burner to make it look like he’s a novice. Three players are out before the table takes him seriously. It’s better than he’s ever done in the past, and Sam’s impressed. His control over his facial expressions is eerie. If he could keep his mouth shut, he’d be a hell of an actor. Two of the three players who lost buy back in, determined not to underestimate Dean any more. Dean smiles wide and emphasizes the southern in his accent.

“C’mon in, gents. Don’t let my lucky streak scare you away.”

They smile and nod, and when Dean orders a drink, Sam’s sure to switch out a non-alcoholic one before it gets delivered. It’s time for ploy number two: drunk and stupid. Dean slams a drink every two hands, and starts to weave a little. That works on the lady at the table and a young English playboy type. The Brit buys back in, but not the woman. She sits back and watches, keeping one eye on Dean. Sam laughs to himself. She’s too old and too sophisticated, but he knows Dean will go with her if she offers.

There’s two old hands, the Brit, and Dean left when a gorgeous dark haired woman in a low-cut red dress asks to buy in. Everyone at the table nods and she sits down, pulling a wad of bills out of her black velvet clutch. The dealer takes it and gives her chips, and Sam develops tiny worry lines between his brows. Dean has gone quiet and the game has changed once again. The old hands don’t pay any attention to the beauty, the young man stares outright, and to a normal person’s eye, Dean looks completely uninterested. Sam knows about Dean’s peripheral vision, though, and he knows Dean is sizing her up.

The older lady figures it out and leaves the room. Sam’s sad for it, too. Dean’s definitely not going home with the red dress, so he’s likely to pick up one or two of the hangers-on for tonight’s entertainment. The thought makes Sam’s stomach turn.

The poker has turned serious and Dean loses enough to even him with the old hands. The Englishman goes all in, and Dean folds on what Sam thought was a sure hand. Scarlet, as he’s taken to calling the red dress lady, wins the hand. The playboy sits for a moment, and Sam’s fairly certain he’s considering buying back in. It’s likely to be a long night, as Scarlet, Dean, and the two old hands are evenly matched.

He decides against it, and poaches a pen off the dealer. He writes something on a business card that he hands to Scarlet. She takes it and puts it in her purse, snapping it shut with a small smile. He inclines his head to her, nods to the table, and shakes Dean’s hand. Dean gives him a warm smile, but shakes his head.

Dean’s gotten to the tough part of the night. Sam sizes up the two old hands as thoroughly as he can, knowing Dean will have a hard time concentrating on anything but Scarlet’s cleavage.

One is an old, tanned man with ten years’ worth of paunch and thick salt and pepper hair. Sam can’t peg him for a particular age because his mannerisms, movement and speech don’t single any generation out. If pressed, though, Sam would guess early sixties, with a considerably younger wife and liberal daughter. Probably a teenager. He’s wearing jeans and a cowboy hat, and is staunchly unruffled at being completely underdressed.

The other man is well-kept and obviously from old money, judging by his speech and mannerisms. He’s thin, in an impeccable but understated Italian suit, and has a silk square in his pocket that is probably worth more than Dean’s entire wardrobe. Sam puts him at forty-five, and he’s here for a weekend, because Sam’s sure he’s running a Fortune 500 company during the week. He’s going to go down first. While the other gentleman has several tells that layer for a difficult but potentially decipherable logarithm, this guy has only one, and it’s very subtle. He taps his foot when he’s got a real hand. Two taps, impatient, like he can’t wait to collect his winnings. It’s a good tell – the other players can’t see it unless they’re sitting right next to him.


End file.
